in-love

The worldwide web was still fairly new in the 90s. Lynn and I were both interested in poetry and I had the idea of publishing a poetry magazine on the web. This was in 1995.

I had a goal of becoming a psychiatric social worker and I was learning a great deal about psychiatric issues at this time. I will describe this in greater detail later.

Anyway, we were thinking of a title and I thought of a term that I heard in the psychiatric field – word salad. The definition from dictionary.com is as follows: "incoherent speech consisting of both real and imaginary words, lacking comprehensive meaning, and occurring in advanced schizophrenic states."

I had remarked that at one time, years ago, I had struggled to make sense of poetry... like when I was growing up. I once had the impression that poetry was hard to understand. Maybe I just had bad teachers.

This seemed like a good name that we both liked. So, we called the magazine "Word Salad" or "Word Salad Poetry Magazine." I got a domain name online and started creating a static website. This was prior to WordPress and so I had to work with Microsoft Word or perhaps WordPerfect (yeah, back then both programs were equally popular).

I would then create a list of pages for each poem with links on the main page which would serve as a table of contents.

Lynn let me do everything related to the presentation of the book on the web.

I also did what was required to try to get submissions. Back then, newsgroups were very popular, and your internet service provider included a list of newsgroups that you could subscribe to. It is similar to a forum today, but they were more open and not controlled by any particular owner... meaning there weren't strict rules about what you could post.

Consider something like this today. We might join groups on Facebook, but someone is an owner and creator of the group or there are a small group of administrators for the group. Unsolicited requests for submissions posted to a group might get you kicked off for sending spam.

Newsgroups were not like that and you could find appropriate groups where you could find creative people who are writers and poets. That's what I did.

Poetry submissions started coming into our email account for the magazine.

Keep in mind that at the time this idea of an online magazine was very new as well. That is no longer the case.

We decided to publish four times every year. Around the time when we were getting ready to publish an edition, I first asked Lynn to sit down in front of the computer and see what she thought of some of the poems we were getting – which ones did we want to publish?

She said she wanted me to print out all the poems that I got. I did that and she started creating piles for rejects, those we might want to publish, and those she or we liked. She might show me ones she liked right away along with the ones that were in the "maybe" stack or I would look later... sometimes I would start off indicating which ones I liked.

This was really taking off and it was amazing.

At one point, we got an interview with Ben Steelman who is a reporter with the Wilmington Star-News. We sat down together with him outside near his office in town. It was memorable.

We got some submissions from our friends as well.

A similar process occurred when Lynn would edit/proofread my papers for graduate school. She would ask me to print out the paper and she would go about marking up typos or other stupid mistakes I would make in my writing. It's strange how easy it is to make all these errors even if I was a much better writer than might be indicated by some early drafts of my papers.

In the next section, I will describe some aspects of my career. None of that would have been possible without the support, nurturance, and encouragement of Lynn. That journey might have started in the 80s when I decided I was going to go into social work, but it took off in 92. That just happens to be the same time when I met Lynn.

The life I had with Lynn seemed ideal in many ways. As husband and wife, I saw myself as having achieved the greatest thing I had always wanted in life - a family.

I said that we could not have children. Nonetheless, we were a family now.

My friend Jean commented upon how much Lynn and I argued. I, therefore, feel there is value in addressing that topic.

In an earlier chapter, I discussed an incident that puts things in perspective. Jean was only partially a part of the scene. I think it is worth it to present this event again.

Lynn and I had come to a book signing by Jean Arthur Jones and a video presentation at a coffee house downtown. He had released a chapbook of poetry. Lynn and I had been arguing about something and our conversation was almost non-existent as I drove downtown with Lynn next to me.

After I had Jean sign a book for me and then one for Lynn I then brought it upstairs and of course Jean went on with signing other books for others. He didn't see what transpired next when I returned to Lynn upstairs. 

When I handed her the signed copy of Jean's book, she let her beautiful smile wash over her face as she accepted the book and then a smile as she slightly laughed a bit frustrated because she couldn't stay mad at me.

I had answered, "well, it doesn't mean that I don't still love you." I was commenting on the things that made me mad. It also said a great deal about the fact, the truth that nothing that happened EVER changed the nature of my love for Lynn.

It was an experience that I remember as an epiphany that Lynn and I recognized. Yet it was only one such experience. I would always feel bad when we weren't talking. I couldn't stand letting that go on for hours.

Knowing that no argument was going to divide us was an observation that was profoundly important. It was an absolute truth that we knew! Always! I would use some version of this scenario to break the silence.

As a counselor, I heard clients talk about their relationships. I remember hearing someone say that he and his girlfriend have a "really special relationship." I was baffled as he had described a tension that had existed for days and a distance between them that had gone on for days. That didn't seem like a special relationship at all!

I absolutely could not stand the tension and the idea that Lynn wasn't happy or that I hurt her feelings. Maybe I blurted something out that I regretted. I didn't usually get a gift like that evening when I brought her the book – I just happened to be planning to do that already that evening. At other times I would get close to her and smile, get her to make eye contact. She almost seemed frustrated that she couldn't stay mad.

It almost felt like I was arguing with myself as I was discussing things. I was thinking about old ideas that I had accepted without thought. We discussed everything so we were going to disagree from time to time.

Anyway, some of these arguments came from the influence of religious teaching/brainwashing that I had been exposed to in life. I had embraced certain absolutes as a result of that teaching.

These were not times when we demonstrated disrespect for one another. Sometimes I wonder if some couples let resentments exist and they accommodate them by ignoring the topic just like families consider "politics" to be taboo.

Our Home

We got two cats that we named Tip and Boo. Diane set up a swinging door to the garage so that the cats could get out there to the little box. We both had cars, but we kept them outside because we used the garage for other things. I started to gain some weight and Lynn bought a machine where I could run or walk on it for exercise. I also had weights and a punching bag. Gestalt therapy encourages us to act out our anger but I'm getting ahead of myself.

We bought two ladders, stained them, as opposed to painting. Diane brought a stud finder so that we could put nails in the wall for the bookcases that we were building across the back room toward the right where we also set up a computer. Oh, we got cable internet when that was available.

The backroom to the left would be a spare room with a couch that we could offer a guest if they visited, like Lynn's cousins. We put a larger TV in that room too. It wasn't a flatscreen – this was the 90s!

In the bedroom, we had another TV. Next to the bed, Lynn had the equipment that she used to receive inhaled medications. We both liked Star Trek and would watch that on a smaller TV in the bedroom. I was getting busier and busier, so I watched TV less than Lynn did. Due to Lynn's income limits, she couldn't work as much as I did.

She did sell her pottery on consignment at various places and at certain events. 

For meals, we had been learning to cook together for some time. I wasn't as practical as she was which just meant that she would say whose turn it was to cook or if she wanted me to cook dinner for whatever reason. We handled cleaning the same way. She basically directed me as to how she wanted to see things cleaned.

We took turns emptying the litter which would not be possible if her health got bad. It's not good for her to breathe the dust. I do feel guilty for asking her to do that at all. It was part of my denial of her condition. Some of the cleaning I had to do for the same reason, to keep her from inhaling certain things. Her lungs were not as strong or healthy as mine.

Memories and Dreams of Abuse

Memories of the abuse I experienced growing up were never far from my mind or they were not far enough from my mind... they were not buried deep enough, unfortunately. I was still having nightmares related to the abuse I had experienced in the past.
 

I had been assaulted - verbally, physically, and emotionally. Adding to that the emotional neglect from my parents and it's no surprise that nightmares would find their way into my nights...

In my dreams, I would sometimes be striking out at my parents. There was a point between waking and sleeping that made it seem like I was hitting the bed, punching it. So much time has passed, and I have processed it over the years. As a result, the memories have faded.

What I remember was being afraid that as my hands were flailing about in the bed that I might hit Lynn. That is what I remember! It makes my blood run cold to imagine that. 

I remember that I would describe, to Lynn, the actual memory that was related to the nightmare that had awakened me. This was over a decade since I had left home and so the abuse that I was remembering was still creeping into my dreams. 

Nights with Lynn in bed right next to me. Just as my hands swung in my dream in efforts at fighting back, so did my arms seem to be flailing about in the bed. Sometimes I would be hitting the bed or punching the bed.

I only remember that she had assured me that she wasn't afraid and that my hands had not moved as much as I imagined. Oh, and that I did shout loud enough for us both to wake up. This was happening until I was about 30!

Serenity and Intimacy

What I do remember is an awareness that my desire for nurturance growing up explained why I sought to cuddle so much. I also had tension headaches and some stomach problems. I would rest my head on her lap as she caressed my forehead.

Prior to when we moved in together, though, we had not had sex.

After that things were different.

She knew how attracted I was to her. For Valentine's Day, I suggested that she get a sexy and revealing outfit at Victoria's Secret or some such place. I was so touched that she did this. I felt like she had not usually tried to look beautiful or attractive to the same degree as some females do. She didn't wear much make-up or look like some females that I might otherwise think are objectively attractive. Despite the fact that she was not trying to look beautiful, to me, she was the most beautiful woman in the world and she knew that.

Anyway, getting that outfit, that sexy, revealing outfit, this was my gift. She knew it aroused me. I would find myself unable to contain myself and would get up and gently say "can I take this off?" and she would laugh about the effort she had gone to and how soon it came off.

It seems strange to be talking like this... about intimacy. But it was so new a discovery... every time. I would marvel at the idea of someone desiring me - emotionally, sexually.

These days we see on TV and in the movies and I heard growing up that this was something physical. The closeness that Lynn and I had was something different, mysterious, and an awesome discovery as if no one has known about these things until we discovered these experiences. Maybe it is the creative part of me that is inclined to think these things. - the romantic poet.

What I am hinting at is the fact that unlike the notions I got from family and my other observations from our culture, men don't have to take the lead. We don't and shouldn't make the first move, expecting our wives and girlfriends to agree to what is happening.

With my parents, it seemed like sex was taboo but at one point my mother made some comments that made it seem like it was her obligation to meet her husband's desires. I cannot overstate how different things were with Lynn and me. There was not even a hint of role expectations.

As far as sex goes, Lynn didn't wait for me to bring up the topic of sex on every occasion when we were intimate. It was also not a situation where either of us was expecting the other one to know what to do. We discovered each other's bodies and what felt good. It was like exploring. I guess she didn't direct me at first and vice versa because we didn't know what the other one was comfortable doing.

Unless we were both in bed already and the lights had gone out, neither of us was "not in the mood" much of the time and this was beautiful to me. We could tell if one of us was busy, tired, stressed, or whatever.

I think that is rare. How often do two people find that both are "in the mood" at the same time? Or how often do two people respond to each other as if they are responding in sync? ... No awkward approaches and the other person turning away.

Also, I NEVER remembered a time when a loving glance or smile could be resisted by either one of us. I'm not talking about necessarily anything sexual. Just imagine a couple together and one is watching TV or distracted and the other one looks and tries to get their partner's attention, but they blow them off as if they've gotten too comfortable or some old resentment has been there. Yeah, that song by Carly Simon "Coming Around Again" has a line "I know nothing stays the same." 

No, that didn't happen to us ever. Things only grew in our love and desire for one another.

Returning to the matter of sexual intimacy... All of this is mysterious to me. But sensuality is a good and right thing. Our bodies are our gifts to one another.

And closeness wasn't always just about sex. Lynn would choose to sleep nude signaling her desire to be that close to me.

I was talking about serenity and passion. The former, serenity, implies peace and diminished arousal of emotions. Passion is the opposite. For a husband and wife, passion can imply sexual passion.

Yet, the most beautiful woman in the world, Lynn, could both arouse me with her body next to mine and bring me a serene sense of comfort as we fell asleep. My hands holding her bare breast.

It's important to realize that every person has different erogenous zones and responds to different forms of contact. For some females, the breasts around the nipples are not erogenous. It just doesn't create a response for them.

I had discovered that if I held her breasts and moved my hand ever so slightly, she would respond with arousal. So, if I started getting aroused, I might check to see if she was awake enough for sex. If not, or if she felt like sleeping, she would gently place her hand over mine and say "sweetie, I am sleepy."

She wasn't quiet either. During sex, I would ask at times "did I hurt you?"

She would answer as soon as she could, almost desperately, "don't stop."

If you are thinking that Lynn might have been fragile, that's not it. I just wanted to be sure that what I was doing felt good.

I want to share, in the next chapter, some information about a poetry magazine that Lynn and I created on the web in 1995. This will depict another shared interest that we had and something we did together.

Lynn's mother, Diane, was not burdened by the kind of religious dogma to which I was subjected. That was why she had no problem with buying a home, as an investment and renting the home to us. This was a decision she made after Lynn and I got engaged. This decision by Diane to buy a house coincided with her offer to allow us to rent the home. It was an investment for Diane because she only charged $200 for rent - $100 each from me and Lynn.

I should clarify that Diane clarified that she was doing this for us to live as husband and wife. Lynn was still working when this was done, and I was going to graduate school.

The discussion with Diane about the rent was more along the lines of what we both could afford as opposed to a conversation about two people having separate finances. Lynn and I had maintained our own bank accounts due to her need to qualify for her health care insurance. They look at resources in addition to income. That doesn't mean that either of us had kept anything a secret regarding our bank accounts and how much was in them. I always explained everything I spent with Lynn because she was very practical, and she expected me to do so.

Anyway, I knew that Diane wanted her daughter to enjoy all the benefits of marital life. That meant that she expected us to have a healthy sex life together when she bought a home for us where we could live as husband and wife.

Here is the thing about why I am breaking with tradition and discussing intimate things. It was an issue for me due to some religious brainwashing. Only on rare occasions, maybe 2 or 3 times during the entire many years that Lynn and I lived together did it occur but that was too much. I may have had some doubts about what we were doing intimately due to those "traditional" values. I mostly understood that there was nothing normal about our circumstances and that the moral ideas about not making love outside marriage could not apply in this situation.

That being said, on about 3 occasions I shamefully gave voice to a bizarre concern that we were acting immorally by not being married.

Anyway, it's not like Lynn's mother said something like, "I expect you to have a healthy sex life together." However, there were so many little ways that I knew this. I'll expand upon this below.

That was so refreshing for me. It honestly never occurred to me that any aspect of our life should be avoided when Diane was present. We picked out a bed together. Diane bought the bed for us. She bought a home with one bedroom.
 

That was so refreshing for me. It honestly never occurred to me that any aspect of our life should be avoided when Diane was present. We picked out a bed together. Diane bought the bed for us. She bought a home with one bedroom.

She was there to help us decorate the bedroom and the bath area – one bedroom. A bathroom right next to the bedroom and closed off from the rest of the house. One closet. Things would not have occurred the same way with my family and It's probably why in many families a mother or parents are not present when their son or daughter is furnishing or decorating their bedroom area.

I just knew that if Diane had heard about my religious brainwashing, she would have been mad. So, Lynn protected me in that regard on those very rare instances where I expressed some doubts about how we expressed our love for one another. 

Some of what we did together as we were furnishing and decorating the bedroom was interesting. I wanted to convey my love and desire for Lynn and for her mother to see this.

We shared a mischievous look, a brief kiss, as I gently pulled Lynn to me with her mother right nearby. As we looked at the shower area there was more of the same. I stopped to take in the sight of Lynn imagining seeing her naked body walking from the shower, obviously looking dreamy as Lynn was talking to her mother at this point.

I didn't have to tell Diane that "I am thinking about seeing your daughter naked." We didn't have to say "this is where we will have sex" as we looked at the bed together. To me, I was thinking that I was free to be comfortable about these matters even though Lynn's mother was right there with us and it seemed more important to demonstrate my intent to make Lynn feel good as we expressed our love for one another sexually.

This was happening at some point after we got engaged. Lynn and I had slept together, including at times when her mother had been visiting – Diane still lived out of state at this point and would come and stay in the home where Lynn lived on Wrightsville Beach. When I say we slept together before we moved in together, I don't mean we had sex and so I had not seen all of Lynn, yet. We had not yet had fully nude genital contact. The only erogenous zone I had seen was her breasts.

I had a sense that Diane had a knowledge that this would be how things would work out if Lynn had fallen in love – that if the state knew that she was married she would lose her insurance which was not an option.

I know that Lynn and her mother discussed everything. Yeah, the very specific topic of how Lynn was going to make sure she didn't get pregnant was an issue that I learned about later, but it did NOT take me by surprise.

I felt like I could have stated that Lynn would protect her health but that wouldn't make sense. Diane knew that Lynn was aware of her health concerns.

That conversation about how Lynn and I would make sure she didn't get pregnant did not occur when I was present, but I knew that she wanted Lynn to be happy. This taboo around sex was my brainwashing. I was more afraid of Diane finding out that I had these doubts about making love with Lynn.

I remember a conversation I had with Lynn sometime later. It was about a conversation she had with her mother.

Lynn's health was such that she could not support another life. She had problems with digestion. So, I just asked her, "when you and your mother talk about our sexual relations what do you say?"

Her answer was "she just wants to know that I am not going to get pregnant."

"Okay, so what did you say?" I asked.

"I just told her not to worry ... we are careful," she answered.

I thought "Okay, that makes sense." My response was, "okay," and then I smiled.

"What?" she asked.

"It's great that you can talk about this and that she wants you to be happy."

When Lynn and I had this conversation, we had been having sex for a while. It was beautiful to note that Lynn did not wait for me to initiate sex on these occasions. This reflects the fact that I wanted to know that Lynn loved and desired me.

You might recall that I had been uncertain earlier when we first started seeing each other, about whether Lynn was interested in me as much as I was interested in her. That is what I mean here but in a slightly different context.

Lynn also needed and hungered for closeness. It was an expression of our relationship which this book is about – relationships and connections.

That need for closeness was complicated by the need to make sure that she doesn't get pregnant. It might sound bizarre therefore when you hear her say "oh, sweetie, you are too close" in a voice full of the sexual passion of the moment. It just meant "I can't get pregnant."

I wondered "had Lynn kept the details about how we were making sure that she didn't get pregnant to herself and not shared them with her mother to protect her from thinking about some aspect of intimacy that had to be avoided by us?"

I kept the reality of just how serious her illness was out of my mind as much as possible. 

After the loss of Celta, I doubted my ability to love again or succeed as a social worker because I had my own problems so how could I help others. What I couldn’t predict was that I wound fall in love and discover just how amazing it would be to live as husband and wife, to love and be loved.

Moving to Wilmington for a technical writing job was what I needed to get back on track.

I was sacrificing the chance for a higher salary as an engineer because I felt compelled to assist others. Engineering held no real value for me, no matter how much money it could bring. The satisfaction of helping people through my work was more important to me than any salary or title. Plus, I would never get hired because I wasn’t an actor and couldn’t convince a would be employer that I was interested in any engineering job.

Because of my increased confidence in my ability to write poetry, I forced myself to attend the first of many open mic poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center and committed myself that first evening to getting in front of others and sharing my poetry. I was aware that therapists have to lead therapy groups, so I better get used to being the center of attention.

The emcee was Dusty who was like a mother figure to me - kind and welcoming - this might have made it easier. After that first event, I started attending the readings and sharing my poetry every Sunday.

I started reading poems about the grief and loss of Celta and didn’t think I would ever find love again. I wrapped myself in the warmth and comfort that was created on these Sundays. This reflected my personality and desire to nurture experiences like this for myself and others.

Life should be like that for everyone - welcoming and nurturing.

While attending these events, I felt a new breath of confidence that was new. I wondered if it had to do with the experience of being loved by Celta. Despite the loss, the memory of someone seeing me as that special was transformative.

I met someone who interested me. I somehow found the courage to ask her out to attend a large poetry reading that was going to be held on Carolina Beach. This was a bigger event than the regular open mic events where I met Lynn. To my amazement she accepted my invitation and gave me her number.

On that first weekend together, at the close of a vibrant 4th of July, when someone she knew casually inquired if I was her boyfriend, she replied, “no, we are just friends.” I swallowed the sting of her words, convincing myself it had to be enough, for fear of upsetting the uncertain nature of this relationship. I let the currents of our connection carry us where they may.

But soon, the tide would turn. Before I even needed to label the relationship as more than friendship, I relentlessly demonstrated my devotion by making myself perpetually available, every single day. She was acutely aware that she was the sole focus of my affections.

Lynn was breathtakingly beautiful, a beacon of light that emerged from the shadows of loss and pain. In the wake of heartache, something extraordinary began to blossom.

Each moment with her was a testament to a life filled with joy, excitement, pleasure, and tranquility. I believed that this profound happiness and serene peace would be mine for ... forever in so much as I could think about that concept. Each moment was like eternity.

The first kiss was electric, searing itself into my memory with a force I could never have anticipated. It happened on the beach, where I had commanded my restless thoughts to silence, urging myself to exist solely in that moment. The crashing waves harmonized with the tranquility we shared, and suddenly, as if conjured by some unseen force, everything changed. There was no need to dissect our relationship status or analyze our feelings; the moment simply unfolded like a spell.

Our faces instinctively turned towards each other, eyes locking in a gaze that spoke volumes, a silent invitation to close the space between us. My face angled slightly to the right, and hers mirrored mine. We inched closer, drawn together by an undeniable force.

Our lips met, and remained pressed together, taking me somewhere I had never been previously. Her arms wrapped around my back, pulling me into an embrace that made the world fade away. If there were others nearby, they ceased to exist in my awareness. This public display of affection felt destined, intensely right.

A year had passed since a forgettable kiss on a date, one devoid of the magic and meaning that Lynn and I discovered in that fleeting moment on the beach. Our kiss was shorter in duration, yet it surged with an intensity that eclipsed anything I had known.

Her mother's retirement home, a sanctuary that was often empty, became our refuge. Even when her mother or stepfather were present, it didn't matter; our connection transcended their presence. Each day was punctuated by intimate and fervent kisses on her bed, an exploration that was both exhilarating and tender, yet never ventured further.

Then came the pivotal moment when I handed her the engagement ring. We had selected it together, a symbol etched into our future. The lady at the jewelry shop, with a knowing smile, mentioned, "Your fiancé can pick this up Monday."

She was already aware that I would have it in my possession when I arrived on Monday. Yet, before I could utter a single word or orchestrate the cherished moment every woman dreams of, I witnessed her face transform, tears of sheer joy cascading down her cheeks. The sight was so breathtaking that it stole the air from my lungs. I was overwhelmed with profound elation, knowing that I had the power to bring HER such unparalleled happiness.

In that heartbeat of a moment, I believed with every fiber of my being that our shared joy and tranquility would reverberate through eternity.

Peace and joy were what I had found. It was as if those two different things (joy with excitement) and peace could coexist at the same moment.

Helping people to heal as a therapist was another dream of mine that I was awaiting. It was obviously different than an exclusive relationship with a life partner but playing a transformative role in the lives of others was part of my dream and part of what I knew I wanted.

After getting engaged, Lynn's mother offered to buy us a house where we could live as husband and wife.

During our years together, it was amazing. I loved giving gifts and sharing my love for Lynn with others, even complete strangers. It felt spiritual. Even though I am shy, I still wanted to share details about my life as if I had discovered something full of awe and wonder and I wanted others to know about how good life could be.

We argued quite often but that was ironically what made this relationship healthy and I had developed a stable attachment style. If I said something hurtful, I would make amends right away.

For years we lived as husband and wife. I never took what I had for granted. I certainly never did anything that could cause Lynn to love me any less than what we were sharing. It never made sense to me the way some people do things to their spouses because they think that they have them and they won’t leave.

This experience of love is a story in itself. I truly couldn’t imagine it ending.

My life took a sharp turn when I met Celta, a person who would change everything. With no job prospects, I had no choice but to move in with my parents after graduating from Georgia Tech, a decision that almost immediately seemed like a big mistake.

My mother's relentless pressure to find employment weighed heavily on me, her constant reminder that I could go to school at night if only I had a job as an engineer. But it wasn't just her words that stung - for the first time, she actually wanted to spend time with me, only to use it as an opportunity to criticize and belittle me. The toxic atmosphere that pervaded our home left me feeling ashamed and unworthy. No wonder I avoided spending time with my own mother.

I didn’t eat too much food and so I was not a major extra burden on my parents. I wasn’t asking them to pay for graduate school.

I thought I would have a chance to prepare for the next phase of my life. Despite having 6 psychology classes, I knew I had much more to learn, more growth was necessary, and experience in something close to psychiatric social work.

I graduated in 1989 from Georgia Tech, moved in with my parents in North Augusta, South Carolina near Augusta, Georgia. I found out that there was a state psychiatric hospital called Georgia Regional Hospital in the nearby town of Augusta, Georgia. I approached the volunteer department and told them I was planning to get a Master of Social Work degree and wanted to get relevant experience and was willing to volunteer.

I was connected with the lead social worker on the intake unit and I explained that I wanted to get some experience in the field because I was coming from an engineering program which was a radically different type of background.

By the first part of January of 1990, I was a volunteer at Georgia Regional Hospital on the intake unit working for the social work team. I wasn’t just observing or doing busy work. I was doing the psychosocial intake assessments that the social work team did. I was learning what social workers did in a setting like this and I was learning about how diagnoses are made.

I continued to develop my capacity for empathy, my active listening skills, and I noticed that people were opening up to me. This setting created even greater challenges due to the nature of various mental illnesses.

I had met Celta early in 1990 in this same setting. She was in hospital due to her health. She had anorexia. One of the medical school interns had suggested that I could maybe talk to her to understand about anorexia because I had a cousin with that.

Later in my career I might have known and worried more about boundaries. I had not been assigned to do a psychosocial assessment or anything related to my role on the staff as a volunteer.

When I met Celta I explained that I was not approaching her as part of the staff or as part of my role on the social work team. The moment I approached her, she smiled before I could even explain these facts.

Celta and I never talked about her health. She was in the hospital for just over the first three months that I knew her. She would write diary entries of all her observations and she would share these inner personal thoughts with me when I saw her or she mailed them to me.

After her release from the hospital she stayed for a short while in Augusta but then I took her to stay with her mother in Athens, Georgia - an hour and a half away from me. Her father then put her up in an apartment.

I would see her every weekend. I also spoke to her everyday on the phone. It was almost like magic because I couldn’t imagine that love could develop so quickly and in such an unlikely way.

It was not long before I was telling her “I love you” and hearing those words back on every phone call, everyday. I felt such a sense of joy. Something that had always been missing was being fulfilled.

During my Georgia Tech days, I had friends who were couples. I would be friends with both partners. My best friends were Thomas and JoLee who got married to each other. With each of them, I knew I was not the most important person in their lives nor was I their top priority. I suppose there are echoes of the words from my mother speaking about my cousins and saying that “they have their own lives” and that idea existed with every friend I made while I was away at Georgia Tech.

I had still carried the beliefs from childhood when I was growing up. The truth was, I didn't know what love really was. I had experienced some degree of connection or validation from my friends. In my family, I was an inconvenience—something to be tolerated, not cherished. My world had been shaped by emotional deprivation, shame, and the belief that I was fundamentally unworthy of being seen, let alone loved.

Things were different with Celta. I had not told anyone before her those words “I love you” or heard those words from anyone. Not in the way I was experiencing things with Celta.

Celta and I would have a relationship that was just slightly more than platonic with so much time cuddling together, holding each other, walking hand-in-hand. Looking into each other's eyes. 

With this transformative experience, one event stands out. There was a moment where we were having a picnic at the Botanical Gardens. I was talking about something that I didn't think was very interesting but looking up, I saw that she was smiling with delight as she looked at me, transfixed upon me, hypnotized. 

This was just one of many moments… Moments like this transformed my sense of my value and worth to a person. I felt special finally.

As we took pictures in the park, I couldn't help but notice how delicate she seemed. Her mother suggested a pose where I would kneel and she would sit on my knee. But as we got lost in each other's eyes, she started to sway and almost fell into position, her tiny arms and body barely giving me any sense of how to catch her.

I was only 5’7” tall but with her 4'11" stature and her weight of only 70-80 pounds made me worry about how to catch her. Luckily she didn’t fall far, coming to sit on my leg with my soft gentle arms around her side and back. Luckily, I was instinctually very gentle and using instincts alone, faster than concrete thoughts, was able to find a soft way to catch her.

My friend had recently confided in me about the physical abuse she endured from her husband, even though he was not very big but as a guy he was stronger, she said. Indeed, this difference in size and strength was most profound between Celta and me. I was always a gentle person by nature and the idea of causing harm to someone I supposedly loved was unthinkable, as was harming anyone.

Despite the toxic environment at home, all those moments spent with Celta still allowed me to experience something amazing. She brought me immense joy and a sense of the possibility of love which I had never experienced before, and eventually this would open up opportunities for me.

But at home, I was constantly belittled and pushed into mundane jobs, with my hard-earned degree from Georgia Tech being dismissed as insignificant. The pressure to conform to their expectations and take any job available left me feeling small and ashamed because of my education. I would not judge others the way I was made to feel about myself.

In Celta's presence, however, I felt like a giant towering over the negative voices and expectations from my family.

At no time did my parents ask who was making me happy… What I might want for the future… How might I achieve my goals and plans? They were utterly disinterested in anything that mattered to me or made me happy.

I learned about the death of Celta on New Year’s Day, 1991. I cried more than everyone else at the funeral combined.

For the next year and just over 3 months, I lived with my parents. This time without the support of Celta. I did go to a grief recovery group. I turned 25 in 1991, and the other members of the group were older people, mainly ladies past retirement age.

I had various jobs, with only one related to my software engineering degree.

I questioned how I could help others while dealing with my own problems and how I dealt with the loss of Celta.

My mother introduced me to a professor and poet named Martin Kirby, who became my mentor in writing. Through a temporary job offer, I moved away from my parents for the last time.

These experiences with Celta and working at Georgia Regional Hospital helped me continue to make advances made at Georgia Tech in overcoming social anxiety and would be useful for leading therapy groups as a clinical social worker/therapist in the future. Despite the tragic loss of Celta, I gained valuable personal growth.

Having grown up with emotional neglect, I thought I had finally woken up when I saw myself through the eyes of love—with a girl, a young woman named Celta. That moment cracked open a new self. And still, the impulse to explain myself never left me. Maybe someone here knows that feeling too.

There was a time when I thought I had finally arrived—at love, at home, in a life of success, accomplishment, and peaceful contentment. Lynn was that life. Our love gave shape and meaning to everything else. It buffered me from old wounds, from the shadows of emotional neglect, and let me believe that, maybe, I was no longer invisible.

But then a meteor came crashing down upon my life. Lynn’s illness caught up with her. I was a healer—but only for the mind. All I could do was watch. It was like watching a fire consume everything I had built.

In the smoke and ash of that loss, I turned to my family of origin. I held out the ruins, hoping they’d see the devastation I couldn’t hide. But the truth is—I couldn’t even hide from it. The grief was all-consuming, like a fire itself—burning through everything I was, everything I’d built, everything I thought would last.

Instead of comfort, I received a bizarre sense of blame. As if I deserved it. As if I had brought it upon myself.

That was perhaps the cruelest wound—not the fire itself, but the silence that followed. I was no longer just grieving Lynn and the life I had. I was confronting that ancient, familiar ache: I am not worthy. I am not welcome. I spent a lifetime explaining myself to those who never intended to understand.

The moment I knew everything had changed was the day I walked into our home - Lynn’s and mine - and saw it being packed up. Her mother, who once bought us that house, was now preparing it for sale. It was too real. Too final. I stepped into the computer room—just to be out of sight of the boxes—and felt my legs give way. My body needed support; I slipped down the wall to a sitting position. The life force was gone.

This is the place these poems come from:
A world where identity collapses,
where memory stings like smoke in your eyes,
and where love, once lost, becomes a ghost you chase in dreams.

Dreamed I was a ghost 

I dreamed I was a ghost,
seeking you... screaming your name.
But you would not answer.

Then I could not find you.

I was alone,
an invisible spectator...
watching everything around me,
unable to be heard or seen,
haunting the once familiar spaces.
Now haunted - terrified - by the strangeness
of it all.

In the Boat 

This time it felt
just like a premonition.
In the dream,
I felt like a ghost -
I was there with you
transparent to your sight;
you looked right through me
not seeing me.  

My love for you
keeps these dreams alive.

There is something familiar
about the place.

There, by the water 
we stood,
yet you did not see me.
I watched you enter your sailboat.

I tried to call out to you;
I was scared
of losing you.

I watched you drift away,
fading out of sight.

The boat I enter
takes me back in time - 
back to you. 

Not Even Footprints Remain

Sometimes it seems that
I'm writing these words
on the sand,
like in that quaint picture,
"footprints in the sand."*

The wind is in my face...
Is this all there is?
Words that fade as fast as I write them?
My words dry as sand
that blows in my face
blinding me?

If only I could get you to look
before my words are lost.

In my vision, on the sand,
there are no footprints...
As if I'd never come here,
and never written these words.

Or it never mattered
what I said,
you would not see...
you are not here to see.

You are gone,
like our footprints,
like my words.

Gone!

Flashback

It’s strange how a place
can age-regress you—
fold back the years in an instant.
That’s what happened
when I stood there again.

There’s a man-made jetty
that arcs out to a small island
on the beach
south of Wilmington.

The photograph draws your eye inward—
just as standing there
drew me into myself.

Time collapsed.
Suddenly I was not just in a place—
but in a moment.

Our first day together,
our first real outing—
and the life we were about to build
had just begun.

Today,
the wind off the water
and the hush of waves
surprised me.

The place held the memory—
and the memory held me.

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

I like to believe
I'm just like anyone else—
that we all have limits.

There’s only so much
pain, fear, loss—
trauma—
we can carry
and still remain
ourselves.

Still hold on
to our values,
our sense of self,
the person we hoped to be.

But when the weight exceeds that limit,
something breaks.

We drift.
Not into sleep,
but somewhere else.
A fogged place.
Out of time.
Out of reach.

Sometimes,
if we’re lucky,
we come back.

But not everyone does.

Reflection: This poem echoes the confessional tradition of poets like Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath, whose work dared to name the raw edges of psychic pain. Sexton’s To Bedlam and Part Way Back still haunts me. I sometimes wonder if she ever could make it all the way back.

I did.
At least, I think I did.

But some nights,
the line between coming back
and simply existing
feels paper-thin.

Introduction to the poem

Fuge State

I come to,
or awake,
finding myself already walking
somewhere unknown.

I’m not sure how I got here,
where here is,
or even where I meant to go.

A misty rain drifts down,
mingling with tears
that blur my eyes,
slide warm down my cold face.

Fog lifts off the street like smoke
as day slips toward night,
unwinding the edges of everything.

Street signs leer at me —
unrecognizable,
taunting with names that mean nothing.

I want to run.
Back.
Back in time.

Somewhere in this haze,
my mind glimpses
what can’t be real,
must be the
dream within
this dream.

Hours slip by.
My hands have gone numb.
Cold seeps through my coat
and down my back.
There is no sidewalk.
The winter streets slick with rain
or ice — I can’t quite tell.

Cars whip around corners,
far too fast —
their headlights slicing through me.
Each time I tell myself
they will miss me,
just like the last did.
Just like the lightning
will wait —
let me reach somewhere.

Not home —
that was long ago.
Home is gone.

Dogs bark in the distance.
I hope they keep to their fences,
hope I’m invisible.

No one knows where I am.
No one is waiting.
No one needs me
to get home safe.

Awareness trickles in,
thin as the lifting fog.
I stumble,
knees hit the cold asphalt —
not in reverence, only weakness —
and I whisper into the wet dark,
“Please help me.”

How pointless.
Even if belief could matter,
what would it change?

Walking again,
I see a convenience store glowing ahead.
A phone inside.
A roommate’s number
I can almost recall.

Being alone,
lost,
is a state of mind
that endures.

I will keep walking
unknown streets
in unknown towns,
alone
with no
identity.

* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissociative_fugue

Lost

How did I get
so lost?

At first,
I thought I recognized the road.
A curve, a sign—
faint echoes of somewhere I’d been.

But then—
nothing familiar.
The signs made no sense.
The darkness deepened.

So I drove faster.
“Eventually something
will make sense,”
I told myself.

Fear crept in—
not ordinary fear,
but an existential kind.
The kind that whispers
you might not be real,
that no one is coming,
that even you don’t know
where you are.

My palms sweated.
Heart raced.
I was alone, in a dream
wearing the face of a nightmare.

So I turned off the road—
onto another,
even more unfamiliar.
No signs.
No map.
Just an instinct,
like something inside me screaming,
Anywhere but here.

But the fear didn’t fade.
It grew.
A new kind of terror -
not just from being lost,
but from knowing
I had once been found...
and still ended up here.

I’ve had this dream before.
Always the same turn.
Always the same ending.

The moment before waking,
I whisper inside the dream,
No. I can’t face this.

And I wake.
Still unsure
how I got
so far from myself.

I met Lynn and started seeing her around the 4th of July of 1992. I had been grieving the loss of Celta when I came to Wilmington in April of 1992.

I found love briefly with Celta and yet she died so suddenly and at such a young age. I was devastated. I didn't think I would feel, or experience love again. Then I met Lynn in 1992. We fell madly, and passionately in love. The poems that follow are about that love. I wanted to tell the story to all those who would ever follow me in the later generations about some epic love to rival any husband and wife or any couple.

We lived as husband and wife and were married in every way that mattered. As a Catholic at the time, I sought the sacrament of Holy Matrimony from the Church, but they denied us—the disgusting attitude that someone born with a debilitating illness should be denied access to the sacred! This treatment of Lynn, among many other harmful attitudes, pushed me away from religion.

Lynn was willing to embrace any way of symbolically representing our everlasting devotion, even though she wasn't Christian. We both wanted to formally move from engagement to the next stage of formal commitment to one another forever. Now, no longer religious, I can see that if the sacred exists at all, no secular piece of paper could make our bond more holy than it already was.

For years we had a normal relationship, and the fact that she had a chronic genetic illness did not define our relationship.

Our love created a sense of tranquility and serenity at its core—a deep peace and contentment that existed at all times, even when I was depressed, which was merely a transitory feeling that would pass.

In its purest form, love is distinguished from addiction, which is momentary and transitory. We do not pursue a high that we once had and cannot reach again—that would be like implying that once we discover an awe-inspiring sunrise we need a more beautiful sunrise to feel that same sense of awe.

Love is also like beauty in the sense that it's best experienced as opposed to merely being stated like some universal truth. Creative people express these experiences of awe and wonder in many forms.

These poems capture more than fleeting moments—they hold experiences where physical sensations became markers of something profound, eternal, and awe-inspiring. Each moment contained vastness, pointing to the spiritual that even non-believers in the supernatural can embrace. They are signifiers of what endures and give ultimate meaning to what really matters.

An Infinite Beach

On some beach
that never ends
I'm with her
and just for a moment
I pretend
that things never change
that sometimes,
in moments like this
we walk hand-in-hand
forever.
This is my greatest desire -
to stop time
like this...
when there is just this place,
just these beach sounds
and just
she and I.

What Really Matters

Moments
frozen in time.

That is what love
seems to be...
these moments you remember
something in these moments
(takes my breath away)
has a certain meaning
that endures -

a feeling...
an image...
something said...
or shared...
certain sounds
in the background...
whatever it is that
you remember
is all that really matters.

Introduction: We walked into the Coastline Convention Center that Sunday evening in 1995, hand-in-hand as usual, overlooking the Cape Fear River where the weekly poetry readings were held. Lynn had no idea I had a surprise for her.

We took our seats at a table with other regulars—all friends and acquaintances who knew us as the couple we were, always like newlyweds, never afraid of public displays of affection. The sun was sinking low, and the room was getting slightly dark with just a dim light up front near the podium.

When my time came, I stepped boldly to the microphone. As I read this new poem, I could sense the knowing glances from people in the room—casual looks toward Lynn as everyone understood what was happening. I wonder if she noticed those glances, waiting for her reaction to this declaration of love.

Dreamlike Visions

In this dreamlike vision 
I lay in her lap,
while her golden hair
flows in the gentle wind,
On the beach.

Is this real?
I reach up to touch her
but she is gone... gone... gone
and I am laying on the sand.

Looking skyward I see her
in a vision.
She searches for me,
calling my name, saying,
"I am his and he is mine."

I try to get back
to find her
and that infinite beach
where we would walk hand-in-hand
or lay on the sand
holding each other
together
forever.

The vision -
the dream -
(incomplete)
the love
never ends...
The dream never
ends.

Follow-up to the poem: I sat back down next to Lynn as someone else prepared to read. I noticed she was doodling. One of our mutual friends commented on how much he liked the poem. I turned to Lynn and asked, "So, what do you think?"

"What?" she said, looking up confused. "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."

I shook my head and smiled. She was embarrassed, her face blushing. "I thought you were only reading poems I already heard," she said. "Oh, I'm so sorry sweetie. Let me read it."

I handed her the poem and leaned in close, my arms resting on her chair. I tilted my head and slowly brought my lips to hers. She held my lips there with her hands on both sides of my face—just for a moment, mindful of the others around us.

"It's okay," I said with a smile. "You know what... I really love you."

"I love you too, honey."

She read the poem, visibly moved by this surprise declaration of love.

This became an inside joke for us. I would tease her: "If I share a poem about our love, I hope Lynn is listening?" Her way of making up for it was to read this poem at future poetry events when she didn't have anything else to share. I can't count the number of times that happened, it demonstrated her appreciation and recognition of the value of our love.

I explained that the poem was inspired by the Song of Songs from the Old Testament and a song by the Electric Prunes called "I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night)." I was drawn to the sensual imagery in both—the biblical celebration of love between two people committed to each other, and the dreamlike quality of the song that captured something both beautiful and haunting about love and longing.

In Love

Some would say they understand 
that it is not that uncommon... 
a word that is overused 
because I can't find another word.

People walking past us 
might have seen us holding hands 
they might have known 
there was love.

Yet they would not understand... 
the miraculous experience 
of her hand in mine 
as we walked by the ocean. 
They would not understand 
the experiences – physical and emotional 
signifiers of something worthy 
of belief.

When we sat side by side 
facing the ocean waves, 
hearing them in the background 
seeing them - 
moved by something unseen - 
our bodies were touching 
and the best analogy for what I experienced 
was electrical signals moving 
at each point where our bodies 
our legs, arms, thighs 
were in contact.

This was not merely something 
physically pleasurable, 
not merely biological 
emotional, chemical.

No, I knew that. 
I have felt passion 
but rarely have I felt 
love – though I have been 
mistaken more times than I can count... 
Meaningless encounters 
where the emptiness remained.

That core Self within me 
ready for connection was not 
fulfilled like it was now.

Waves of excitement, peace, 
serenity, joy, clarity 
flowed through moments 
pregnant with meaning. 
Each moment was vast in duration 
each moment held eternity.

I had an epiphany and knew 
what mattered, what gave life meaning 
what filled that emptiness within 
that brought forth the fullness of the 
Self.

The feelings, moving in waves 
were markers of the profound - 
physical sensations that pointed beyond 
themselves to something transcendent, 
something that could not be reduced 
to chemistry or biology alone.

I have known alcoholics that look 
to a higher power. 
I have known the religious who 
speak of a God who alone 
can fill that emptiness 
within.

Everyone is looking 
for what will complete them, 
searching for transcendence 
in substances, in faith, 
in achievement, in escape.

But I have found something - 
I believe in something - 
I believe in love.

I can't prove it exists 
beyond hormonal desires 
beyond biological drives 
beyond what science can measure.

But I know what I experienced: 
love that is true 
and real 
and right...

Love that transforms 
without diminishing, 
that changes you 
without erasing who you are, 
that asks you to grow 
but never to disappear, 
that leads toward transcendence 
while keeping you whole. 
It shows you eternity 
in peaceful moments 
yet never asks you to sacrifice 
the fire of excitement, 
the expansion of joy, 
the sharp clarity of being fully alive, 
the creative force that moves through 
two people connected 
in the deepest way possible - 
embodying what it means 
to be complete 
while remaining yourself.

I Wrote a Love Poem Once

I wrote a love poem once...
I felt it was good -
I remember how good it felt -
the love...
to write the love poem,
to share it,
to dedicate it.
I felt the poem was good.

It was many years ago...
lost - lost in the fire,
as it were,
the love...
the love poem.

I forget how it goes
the love...
the love poem.

 

I just cannot remember
the words I wrote...
but I know I wrote
a love poem,
once...
or twice or more...

I can't quite remember
how it goes -
that feeling,
that certainty,
that desire to feel
that again.

Introduction to Poem “The Whole Story”

Our mutual friend Jean once observed that he saw us argue often, and I was shocked by his concern. Years later, after experiencing a relationship where disagreements felt threatening, where conversations could end with hang-ups, where love itself seemed in jeopardy over differences of opinion - I finally understood what Jean had missed.

With Lynn, I never hung up the phone. When she said, 'I'm not done talking,' I never said we couldn't keep talking. The cognitive dissonance I felt when Lynn challenged my beliefs didn't threaten our bond—it transformed my thinking, because I respected her completely and knew she respected me. Isn't it strange and amazing when you can become so frustrated and irritated in a relationship with someone special but still maintain that pervasive sense of happiness and contentment! Even despite all the fights and arguments, there was always an underlying joy. That is the ineffable nature of what we had—something taken out of context might look like conflict, but within the whole story, it was actually love expressing itself freely.

The Whole Story

Our love is now like an epic novel,
thousands of pages in length, 
with most pages torn 
others burned - in the tragic fire.

 I tried to save what I could 
believing it was worth saving
or worth holding onto - 
believing that nothing dies 
but in the end, 
what do I have? 

 

Just scraps of the book...

Even the ring that symbolized 
the bond of husband and wife 
is gone.

We wrote the book together - 
I remember how it was, 
page after page, 
chapter after chapter, 
lie scattered around a room 
in a forgotten home 
in a forgotten place 
like dark shadows 
under a hazy sky.

Page after page, 
written with a purpose 
written with love.

Sure, there were chapters 
that didn't seem to belong 
or have any purpose that could be understood 
but every part of the story 
had a purpose and place, 
whether good or bad 
within the larger narrative.

This was a story to be told 
for generations to come - 
passed down within the family 
and as part of a cultural tradition.

Looking back, 
at the whole book 
and not just a chapter here 
or there, 
taken out of context, 
you see a theme 
which emerges out of the many 
unplanned chapters.

It was always about love 
and that matters 
more than the quality of the narrative... 
it matters more than 
how things might have seemed 
at any one moment in time.

I love you loving me.
You love me loving you.

I love you loving me—
loving you—
loving me.

You love me loving you—
loving me—
loving you.

I am happy that you love me.
But unhappy if you don’t.

I think—
I don’t need you to love me
for me to love myself.

And yet,
I love you
loving me—
and us,
loving each other.

She loves me.
I feel good.

I was happy—
(a little, somewhat…
in a different way)
before she loved me.

So maybe,
I don’t need her love.

She is angry that I
don’t need her love.

He is angry
that she is angry
that he doesn’t need her love—

because she should know—
you have to love yourself
before anyone can love you.

…Or something like that.

I didn’t love you loving me,
before you started loving me.

If you stopped loving me,
I would not be happy.

But I was happy—
(theoretically)—
before you loved me.

And that is how you could love me.

Right?

You wouldn’t love me
if I didn’t love me.
But we would be unhappy
without our love.

Wouldn’t we?